Moonlight Sonata
by WrittenSword
Summary: A small vignette of a night-time photo shoot for RUNWAY. This is mild Andy/Miranda femslash.


**A/N:** I basically had a scene in my head, like a painting or a photograph, and I wrote words around it. The title is both, because I had the piece by Beethoven in my head when I wrote it, and also because the moonlight itself plays an important part. Hope you like it! ^_^

**Moonlight Sonata ****  
**_by kendokuschi __  
_  
I step out of the car, grab the heavy plastic bags from the backseat and hurry down the dark, sandy path toward the production crew. Moonlight helps me avoid the stray roots and bushes that line the way. When I arrive at the lake I can tell that the photo shoot has not yet recommenced. The atmosphere tastes of slumbering panic. It is the eye of the storm, a calm one shouldn't trust. I don't see Miranda anywhere, but Nigel is quietly speaking with the photographer by a willow tree, away from the main lights.

Passing a handful of forlorn models in their gorgeous dresses, I walk over to the two men. My high heels sink into the sand and renewed fire jolts through my tired muscles at the extra effort. I push on and when I get to Runway's art director I drop the bags with a heavy thump.

"Six, there you are. I can't believe all hell breaks lose and you just take off!" Nigel scoffs at me, his hands finding their favourite resting place perched on his hips.

The photographer is a talented young man, whom Miranda has discovered two months ago and hired straight from the Art Academy. He's pale in the moonlight and he studies me silently as I stretch my arms and rub at my exhausted fingers.

"I got some string lights at a twenty-four hour Home Depot in town, Nigel," I say as I massage my temples. I've been up and working since five a.m., but so have most of the crew.

"_String lights?_" Nigel raises his brows and nudges the bag between us with his feet.

"Yeah, you know... we can put them up outside the frame and they will reflect off the shiny threads in the dresses, the models' hair, the accessories and most importantly their eyes."

The photographer's mouth opens but he remains quiet. I'm not really sure whether he's surprised or angry. Nigel squats down in his tailored pants and pulls some lights from one of the bags.

"Six, you're a genius! This might just work."

I have to smile. Despite working as Miranda's assistant for several months now and beginning to get used to occasional praises as my knowledge and input increases, I still glow when Nigel is proud of me.

"I hope so." I reply sheepishly, but happy.

"It _has_ to, Sweetie. It's nearly midnight and we'll lose the moon in three hours. _If_ the sky remains clear, that is."

I look out at the lake and the big orb of the full moon that hangs above us like a giant lantern. The conditions for the fantasy-themed shoot are perfect. If only the crew had prepared properly. I read the Miranda-approved outline and set-up this morning and it baffled me how nobody had thought of the special effect one could achieve with a bunch of cheap Christmas lights. It was the first thing that popped into my head when less than an hour ago Miranda complained about a lack of "magic", which produced a wave of panic and resulted in the stagnation of the photo shoot.

"By the way, Six, you might want to go and find Miranda. When she noticed that you left she just stormed off and we haven't seen her since."

I cringe and gingerly ask, "Which direction?"

Nigel points behind him to a small path that disappears in the thicket, most likely lining a circle walk around the lake which would be nice to hike along in daytime. I look down at my Manolos and decide to take them off. Avoiding sticks, stones and creepy crawlies is not worth ruining shoes that cost over a thousand dollars, and which I have only borrowed from The Closet.

Shoes in hand I wave my goodbyes at Nigel, but he doesn't notice, as he is too busy calling over production staff to set up the lights. I face the dark tunnel that is lined by trees with foliage so thick that moonlight barely flows through. Slowly my eyes adjust and I move forward. The further I walk the more the trees and plants around me filter out the noise of the crew and models, and I take a deep breath for courage.

I do not enjoy darkness, especially in forests. I quietly curse Miranda and her tantrums, but then I remember my own anger at everyone's incompetence. It must be terribly difficult to be an artistic genius like Miranda, with visions of ultimate beauty that nobody seems to be able to achieve. The vast empire she runs as the editor-in-chief of the world's number one fashion magazine does not allow for her to do things herself. She needs to delegate and have others do the work for her.

Shaking my head I keep stepping through the darkness, ignoring what I might be feeling below the soles of my feet. It is incomprehensible how the highly-paid production staff didn't know about simple tricks like how to achieve easy and cheap highlighting, especially since it has been used in the Lord of the Rings trilogy to make Galadriel's eyes sparkle. Anyone interested in special effects should know this, but maybe people nowadays rely too much on post-processing and digital editing.

If there is one thing I have learned during my time with Miranda, it is that an atmosphere and the spirit of a photograph cannot be "fixed". They need to already be present during the shoot. You can _photoshop_ a model's skin, change the colours, gradients and chromatic scales, but you can never make up for a lack of on-set inspiration. Countless, expensive re-shoots have proven this to me. And whereas in the beginning of my employment I would have rolled my eyes and made fun of the assumed waste of money, I now see exactly what Miranda means.

I yelp as my bare heel lands on a sharp little pebble, and I quickly slap my hand over my mouth and peer around the thicket. In the distance I hear the soft hooting of an owl and something rustles in the grass to my right. A shudder runs down my spine and I quicken my pace. There's a patch of light ahead and I'm relieved when I finally step into the moonlight once more. Taking a moment to calm my heart I count to five before looking around.

A patch of grass and then sand lead down to the shore and toward a wooden landing stage that reaches a few yards out into the lake. A figure sits at the very end, silvery hair glowing in the pale night like a beacon, pulling me like a moth toward a flame, and before I can begin to feel nervous my feet reach the first plank. The wood softly creaks beneath my steps and I know that stopping isn't an option now.

Small waves gently wrap around the pillars that rise from the water at an uneven height, slightly slanting the wooden boards, and as I look a little too intently down into the water I sway. I am nervous.

I am Miranda's assistant, and it is my job to be alone with her sometimes. However she still occasionally terrifies me. Not because she truly is the monster people make her out to be, but because she's overworldly - a human being so fantastic that I cannot help but always feel humbled in her presence.

She is misunderstood and people don't see her brilliance for what it is. She is a woman at the top, which in itself already brings a lot of animosity. Then, when she tells her staff what to do, and she backs it up with vast knowledge and her typical, sparkly wit, people get frustrated with themselves, because they cannot stand that she is right and has the power to enforce her opinion as well.

They call her "Snow Queen" and "Dragon Lady", placing the blame for their own incompetence on her by implying that a mere human female could never be as intelligent, beautiful and ruthless as she is. By putting her greatness down to lineage to Satan himself, they create an excuse for their own failures, because, surely they cannot be expected to work so hard and achieve the impossible if they themselves are merely human.

I raise my eyes to her back as I approach, careful to still watch my step, but without getting disoriented by the movement below. She's wearing a dark blue Vera Wang dress that leaves most of her back bare and hugs her waist beautifully, and I commit her perfect outline against the illuminated lake to memory.

To me, Miranda is a wonder. Something precious. Although I am not immune to the way her low voice cuts when she is displeased, I always strive to better myself, to learn, to work even harder, and ultimately become more like her. For some reason I feel a connection to her that I have never felt with another person before. It's not just her quest for perfection. Somehow I also want to reach out to her emotionally, look behind her erected wall of self-preservation. I want to get to know the person behind it.

I roll my eyes at myself. It's not like I could be friends with her. Miranda doesn't do friendship. She entertains business partnerships. My time of scheduling both her work, and most of her personal life has not revealed a single person that could be considered a friend. She has her two daughters and her husband and that is it.

Two feet away from her I stop. She must know I'm here. I have left a trail of creaking and cracking across the weathered boards and now a slight breeze twirls at my skirt, flapping the fabric about as my opened Chanel cardigan flutters in the wind.

"Miranda," I say as quietly as I can manage. I feel like an intruder.

She doesn't acknowledge me, but keeps looking out onto the lake. I see that she has taken off her shoes as well. They sit neatly arranged by her side and the silvery inner lining sparkles in the moonlight, bringing out the Prada label. The gentle wind lifts some strands of her hair, and for a moment I get lost in the feeling of both of us being touched by nature in the same way. It makes us equals, if only for a few seconds.

"Nigel has a solution for the shoot, and they are ready to continue."

I'm not sure why I don't tell her it was me who actually solved the problem. Something tells me she loathes gloating, and it was some of my fresh-from-university arrogance that had us butt heads in the beginning of my time with her.

This time Miranda nods, but she doesn't move to get up. Instead she shivers and as I watch how the tiny hairs at the back of her elegant neck stand up in the moonlight, a shiver of my own rattles through me, although I don't actually feel cold.

Without thinking I slip out of my cardigan and drape it around her shoulders. Miranda freezes for a short moment, but then accepts the soft garment and holds the sides together in front of her chest.

I stand behind her, lost, terrified and frozen to the spot. I'm unsure whether I should stay or go. Usually Miranda dismisses me when she no longer needs me. So I remain, quietly, and I watch how the wind plays with her hair.

"Andrea, sit down."

I blink against the moon as if to ask whether or not it heard the same thing I did. I hesitate and the delay makes Miranda turn her head to face me. Her expression is blank and as usual it confronts me with my own failure to comply quickly enough. I squat down and place the Manolos behind me with utmost care to not accidentally toss them into the water, before swinging my legs forward and settling at the edge, next to my boss.

Miranda has turned back toward the moon and my heart pounds heavily as reality sinks in. I'm dangling my bare feet over a lake in the middle of the night with Miranda Priestly! The absurdity fades out some of my nerves and I try to calm down. I wonder if she wants to say something, but I don't ask. There's something special about sitting in silence with Miranda. It happens occasionally, and although I usually sit like a spring, ready to jump into action at the briefest of commands, I always cherish those moments.

Another breeze rustles through the nearby reed and toys with our hair once more. Frogs sing their nightly concert and I swear I can hear a nightingale back in the forest. A dragonfly buzzes around our feet for a while and the sound of its rapidly beating wings soothes me. Miranda watches as it decides to land on my big toe and I have to fight the urge to shake it off.

I must be in a dream. A Shakespearean mid-summer night's dream, where fantastical creatures like dragonflies and Miranda seek my company.

I study her profile and I nearly weep at her perfect alabaster cheek bones and the delicate shape of her lips. Her hair isn't silver anymore, it's pure white gold, slowly rising and falling against her forehead with the wind. Her long nose is perfectly imperfect and I watch in fascination as her thick lashes open and close as she blinks.

Suddenly the dragonfly leaves my foot and Miranda looks up at my face. I'm certain that my heart stops beating. Her eyes are wide and infinite, like the midnight sky above us. The moon lights up the intricate blues of her irises that are usually hidden by her narrowed, scolding gaze, and yet now she stares at me so openly that I nearly forget to breathe. I must look like a fool, lips parted, eyes large with shock and practically glued to her face in childish wonder.

Beyond all reason the corners of her mouth move up ever so slightly and I witness my first real Miranda smile with trepidation. This truly cannot be real. It is a dream and I am about to wake up, frustrated and _alone_.

The word startles me. That's it, though, isn't it? When I'm with Miranda I do not feel lonely. I feel a sense of companionship. That is why I stay by her side through every nasty thing she flings my way. It's why I fight my way through twelve-hour shifts and why I even risk the relationship with my boyfriend, who already thinks that I'm replacing his significance in my life with Miranda's.

The thought that I feel alone, even when I'm around Nate, frightens me. The wind has stopped, as if to enhance the scary effect of this revelation, and I cannot seem to calm my racing heart.

Miranda studies me, her gaze darting back and forth between my eyes, and I feel completely naked. She has never looked at me like this, as if she actually _sees_ me and I am not merely a gofer.

For a brief moment I no longer feel like the _smart, fat girl_ without a fashion sense that she hired on a whim. I feel like an adult, like somebody who might, someday, matter.

Without the constant breeze I become aware of her sweet scent, her perfume and the smell of my cardigan against her skin. I note the way her chest rises and falls with each breath she takes, full and almost calculated. Miranda never does anything halfheartedly, even human necessities such as breathing. I watch how her nostrils flutter and how her tongue darts out to briefly wet the rim of her soft-looking mouth as her gaze shifts to my bottom lip, which I realise now, I have been chewing on.

Overwhelmed with the torrent of brand new emotions inside my chest I close my lids and turn my head back toward the moon. The light seeps through the thin slits and I swallow hard before I dare to open my eyes again.

The lake is almost still, reflecting the round moon like on a polished silver plate. The reeds are quiet, but the nocturnal creatures around us appear to be encouraged by the lack of wind. I hear more buzzing, and the mating calls of frogs and toads near the shore is more intense.

My bare arm is so close to Miranda that I feel her body heat, and I'm still painfully aware of her gaze on me. I wonder if she understands the effect she seems to have on me, and if she is enjoying this as a form of torture.

There's a tell-tale burning behind my eyes and I attempt to take slow, even breaths, blinking against the wetness that slowly  
collects on my lower lids. I shiver, my thin dress proving inadequate against my current state of mind, and from the corner of my eye I watch Miranda stand up. Clearly she is getting annoyed with my emotional display, will likely rain down a chain of insults and then send me off on another errand.

My body turns rigid when instead I find gentle hands placing my cardigan back over my shoulders, the warmth of the garment - _her warmth_ - wrapping me into a wonderfully surreal cloud of softness, and I gaze up to notice the thoughtful look on Miranda's face. She no longer smiles, but she doesn't look angry either. She's seems contemplative.

I gingerly slip my arms into the cardigan as Miranda picks up her shoes and turns around without a word. I watch her pad barefoot across the landing stage, the sway of her hips oddly hypnotising, and I sniffle and wipe at my tears before they have the chance to fall.

When she reaches the end of the walkway Miranda suddenly stops and she turns to face me. Although at a few yards distance, the moonlight still makes her eyes shine brightly as they peer into my soul and I am frozen to the spot. It takes a while before I realise that she's actually waiting for me and I manage to scramble up and grab my own shoes within seconds, before hurrying over the creaky wood to join her.

"Why don't you take your time, Andrea?" She drawls sarcastically, but the familiar tone soothes my confused heart and I even manage a smile.

"Sorry, Miranda."

We move toward the tunnel of trees that leads back to the photo shooting site as I notice little lights floating in and out of the darkness.

_Fireflies._

Our pace slows and I am certain that I am not the only one in awe at the hundreds of little lights that dance around us. When I look at Miranda, my breathing stops and my heart catches fire. Several of the lightning bugs have attached themselves to her hair and clothing and she stands in the middle of the dark path like a mythical fairytale goddess. I wonder if she's going to scream, or order me to get the insects off of her, but she does neither.

Instead she raises her hand, where one of the bugs has landed, and studies it intently. She's so gentle with the little creature that it causes a pleasant ache in my chest that I cannot place. When she turns around I sincerely hope that it is dark enough for the flush that warms my cheeks to remain hidden. There's something new in her gaze as she looks at me.

She steps closer and holds the finger with the firefly in front of my face, her eyes never leaving mine.

"If only we could shoot in here," she speaks softly. "The way your eyes reflect the glow of these little creatures is simply breathtaking."

I can see in her blues that some of the insects have landed on me as well, and for a few seconds we're locked together in this moment of pure magic, before she blinks and turns around to resume the walk. I have to actually shake myself out of my stupor to catch up and follow her back to the rest of the Runway staff, unsure if any of this has actually really happened.

The blaring brightness of the production lamps brutally pulls me back into reality. Everyone is ready to continue with the shoot and Nigel rushes over to Miranda to explain the Christmas lights set-up. I stand off at a distance to watch the first two models get into position as Nigel's voice drifts my way.

"... my idea? No, no, it was Andy who got those lights and she also gave me that whole explanation. The rest of us were just running around like headless chickens."

When Miranda turns to pin me down with a piercing gaze I'm not sure whether I should thank or murder Nigel for revealing the truth, because when the freshly motivated crew is distracted with their work, Miranda's lips curl up into a full smile that threatens to combust my chest. I can only smile back like the idiot I feel I will never cease to be, but the happy feeling in my heart will stay with me for weeks.

The End.


End file.
